Melete
by ffnaru
Summary: She might just have to rake her nails over that pretty face. —Erk, Serra; gen.


HEY LOOK I WROTE SOMETHING.

Not what I _wanted _to write, though. Spawned off of stress, the sick!fic conversation over at the Guild, and _Mrs. Dalloway. _(Stfu, Woolf is awesome.) But I couldn't _not _write it.

Enjoy, I guess.

(Oh, and in case you're wondering or haven't figured it out yet: Yes, I changed my name.)

* * *

**Melete**  
_(n.): one of the original three Muses, the Muse of meditation._

* * *

"I don't feel well," she said in a voice that clearly stated, "Don't even _bother_ to argue. Don't even _make _me stay here. I'm retiring to my tent, you're taking care of me, and that's that. End of story." 

Or something like that.

So when Serra stated that she was, as a matter of fact, sick, Erk didn't even bother arguing. No matter how much he wanted to. He'd been down this road already, and he'd had more than enough headaches arguing with the cleric that he would save himself another one if he could.

But old habits die hard, and he couldn't help but quip, "And what malady, pray tell, do you believe yourself afflicted with, Serra?"

She ignored the sarcasm—for she wasn't as dense nor stupid as some thought her, oh no—and instead replied, "Oh, that's so sweet of you, Erk! You're worried for me. Well, I do suppose I should tell you then, hm?"

Erk didn't reply, and so Serra continued, "I believe it's nothing more than a simple head cold, but I would like to rest before it gets worse."

"I see…" With great effort, Erk managed to sound sincere.

Serra nodded sagely. "Yes. And I would like someone to take care of me as well. I simply don't want to overexert myself and worsen my condition. It would be a great loss to the Elite if they lost a cleric of my talents to such a trivial sickness that could have been stopped had someone helped me. And I just couldn't leave all the work to dear Priscilla—that would be too much for her! I wouldn't be able to _stand_ it if she became sick as well on my account. Oh, no. Wouldn't you agree, Erk?"

Upon mentioning Priscilla, his interest suddenly peaked. "No," he murmured, nodding. "That would be most unfortunate." He placed a hand on the back of his neck and cast his eyes toward the ground, exhaling.

Serra hid a smile behind her hand. Of _course_ he would become interested upon her mention of the young troubadour of House Caerleon. He only had eyes for her—would _always_ have eyes for her. And she, Serra, would be left there, all alone to watch.

Silence. She switched her stave into her other hand, examining the blue jewel at the tip as she did so.

(Dull. She would need to request Lord Hector to obtain her another one, among other things.)

Her mind drifted again—back to _her_, back to Erk. Back to the boy walking next to her, silent, eyes staring at nothing in particular as they made their way back to her tent.

True, he had eyes for the young Priscilla—what young man wouldn't? Sain didn't count; he flattered everyone (although she found she rather enjoyed it; it was rather charming)—, but how much did he _truly _know about her? Did he know about her mercenary brother Raven—or should she say, Raymond? Did he know about her heritage? Of how she was once a member of the now fallen House Cornwell? Of how, at the young age of six, she was secretly adopted into House Caerleon? Did he?

_She_ knew. Oh yes, she knew. Word of mouth was a powerful thing, and keeping an ear to the ground was a talent she was particularly proud of, no matter how unbecoming that was of a cleric. (Best to not let Matthew know that, she thought, smiling smugly.)

Erk noticed and asked, "Now what might you be smiling about, Serra?"

"Oh, it's nothing, Erk," Serra replied airily. The two continued walking.

But she also knew that the knowledge she had managed to glean was a powerful and dangerous thing. How easy it would be to let it slip, let him know the ugly truth!

But no. No, she would not. She would not let the truth slip, no matter how badly she wanted to, no matter how badly she feared that the soft-spoken cleric hailing from House Caerleon would harm Erk—_her_ Erk.

She didn't love him—oh, heavens, no, how could she? Decidedly _not _the ideal suitor for her. No, no. (Perhaps someone like Sain? No, probably not.)

No, she didn't love him. She _did_ care for his well being, however. And that was not simply due to the teachings of Saint Elimine—although they were a help, that much she had to admit—but because she _cared_. It was a stupid reason, yes—one that had led to more than a few crying fits at various hours of the night because of something particularly stupid or hurtful that Erk had said earlier on in the day and left her wondering at times why she ever bothered wasting her time on him—, but.

("We live for one another, Sister. It's what we do—we live for each other." There! The teachings again.)

But. Yes, that was it. Looking after Erk's well being made her happy.

And that's why she would dutifully keep her mouth shut and not say anything. Because she didn't want to ruin his possible happiness. She didn't want to ruin the friendship they had.

Of course, _Erk_ didn't think of it as a friendship. No. She imagined he thought of her as a parasitic leech sucking away his time, which was ever so precious to him—after all, he wouldn't be able to dig his nose into one of those lengthy tomes of his if she took up his time, would he? Quite so.

It absolutely _had _to be that, or else he wouldn't be trying so hard to push her away.

They had reached her tent. Pausing at the entrance, Serra smiled sweetly and asked, "Would you be so kind as to get me something warm from Merlinus? I _do_ believe my cold has worsened a little, so please hurry, Erk."

He grudgingly obliged and marched off in the direction of Merlinus' wagon. Satisfied, she entered her tent.

It wounded her to think that, but she had to face the truth. But deep down, there was that one question: did he _ever _consider her a friend, or was she always a nuisance?

(She hoped not.)

Ah, well. It didn't matter. Yes, he was pushing her away—even more so now that he had found a pretty little girl to chase after—, but she would stick to him closer than ever now. She would not be forgotten like so many others before her—left in the dust, discarded like old clothing.

The tent flap opened, and Erk's head appeared.

"Merlinus managed to find some leftover broth from last night's supper," he said, revealing a large tin cup full to the brim. "He warmed it as best as he could, and told me to give you his best wishes in a speedy recovery." He ground out the last words with much difficulty, and somehow managed to overcome the supreme urge to roll his eyes.

Serra smiled and sat up on her cot. "Oh, that's so sweet of him. I must thank him later," she said, taking the tin cup carefully from his extended hands and taking a small sip.

"Come in," she gestured. "It's cold out, and I can't have my retainer becoming ill himself now, can I? In any case, an ill woman such as myself needs protection, because I cannot be expected to defend myself."

Erk sighed wearily and entered the tent, taking a seat next to her as she eased herself back down onto her own cot.

"Even the most hardened criminal would flee after mere moments of being in your presence," he mumbled, and Serra smiled into the rim of her cup.

("We live for each other.")

Yes, that was it. _That _was why she treasured moments like these. Despite that Erk did not treasure their friendship in the same way that she did, it was the fact that he was willing to oblige her, to spend time with her—it was that that made her happy. She would ask for no more, and no less. It was enough.

And, she thought, burrowing herself into her cot and making herself comfortable, if Priscilla harmed even one _hair_ on Erk's head, she might just have to rake her nails over that pretty face.

_fin._

* * *

Hm, it's lacking in some places, and there probably could be more. (And a wannabe Woolf-esque style somehow snuck in there, too. I think _Dalloway _and _The Hours_ are affecting me more than I thought. That line about living for each other? Taken from Richard Brown and Clarissa Vaughn's conversation in _The Hours_, haha.) But hey. At least it's something. Kind of. And my knowledge of _Rekka _is sketchy, since I haven't played it in ages. So if there's errors in the canon, I apologize. 

And a very big "Thank you!" to the lovely Miss Clockwork Key for taking a look at this and catching any glaring, eye-searing errors before this went to the presses. Thank you so _very _much. :)

Concrit is my lifeblood. I'd be much obliged if you gave me some. Even if it's just a line.

Later! And a very happy New Year to you all. ♥


End file.
